Bloom Together
by Birdbeau
Summary: It was flowers that bloomed, traditionally, but that didn't mean people didn't have petals to open. Not AU as much as post-canon Flora/Puzzlette. Ongoing. I promise it gets fluffier.


If anyone were to tell a younger Flora Reinhold-Layton that she would meet a nice professor who would sweep her out of her tower and take her to London, she wouldn't have believed them. She had honestly fully intended to live in her town of androids for the rest of her childhood and well into her adulthood as well. Though it was only designed to house her until a husband or, as the case may be, a _father_ found her, she had never really had a reason to leave. Her little village had been curious enough- and every step of her father's plan fit perfectly into the suspense novels she so adored. After having gone on her adventures with the professor, however, she couldn't say she missed the idea too horribly. London was beautiful, and a family not _engineered _to protect and adore her was refreshing, to say the least.

But a younger girl grew into a younger woman, and adventures the way the Professor attracted them didn't fit her need to do something with her life. She wanted to go to college and live outside of someone else's smothering wishes, no matter how well-intended they were.

When Flora is twenty three, she moves into a flat above a flower shop. It is small, naturally, because one young college girl doesn't need so much space. Her father gives her a teary goodbye, though he will swear his hat stayed planted firmly on his head, and she will not tell a soul that the graceful professor made a bit of a scene. After all, in the privacy of Flora's (and how odd it was to refer to someplace as solely her own) home, and at such a pivotal point in his eldest child's life, she felt she could offer him a bit of slack. Her little brother, adopted as well, clings tightly to her skirt and whimpers for several minutes, begging her not to leave. This is probably more acceptable from Alfendi- at seven, he isn't aware that the twenty minute walk from their home to hers is a lot shorter than it felt on the way. At the end of the day she walks them home, telling the professor she'll see him tomorrow at Gressenheller, and "It's fine, father, I'm fine. We're fine. I'm not too far away." He agrees, regretfully, and after tea she sets home, her new home, shortly after the sun fell behind the buildings.

The flower shop is closed when she winds back to the flat, but Flora can see someone who she presumes to be the owner mulling about in the back. It crosses her mind to give them something, because they are going to be spending a lot of time near each other, if not personally. Flora thinks she might bake something, even though customarily it went the opposite way. Flora has always thought the easiest way to make your presence seem welcoming is to offer kindness where it isn't expected. It's all fine and nice, baking pies for the newcomer, but why not ever the other way? After all, the familiar residents are new neighbors, too, from Flora's view. She takes off her shoes at the top of the stairs and leaves them beside her apartment door, mentally going through everything she'll need for tomorrow's preparations.

The smoke is uncontainable, and the coughing brings tears to Flora's eyes. There's a panicked banging at her door and oh, she wants to collapse, but she goes to answer it.

A tall, slender young woman with an impressive honey hive hairdo bustles into the apartment without as much as a 'hello'. Before Flora has a chance to make it back to the kitchen, the woman has turned off the oven, whipped the burnt pie out and into the sink, and was currently flapping a towel madly to be rid of the smoke. Flora catches on quickly and opens every window in the living room, and kitchen, and bedroom, just to be sure.

By the time she returns to the kitchen, the honey hive woman is leaning against the sink, panting heavily and coughing intermittently.

"Um," Flora starts, and she curses her timid nature. "Hello. I'm Flora, I just moved in-"

"And you've already almost burned the place down!" the other yelps, and Flora steps back. "Ah, well. All clear now. I'm Puzzlette. I run the flower shop downstairs. You can see why I was so concerned, but please pardon my intrusion."

"Puzzlette?" Flora repeats, and the girl in question smiles brightly. "I know you, I think. We met once when I was younger! You manage the puzzle shack downtown, don't you?"

Puzzlette's eyes widen. "Oh, yes! You traveled with that professor and the little boy when that stunning villain plotted to ruin London didn't you?" From what Flora recalls, Puzzlette had been sort of a, oh, how to word this nicely… _ditz_, and she's surprised she remembers so clearly.

"Yes," Flora answers, and wow, there are a lot of yeses going around here. The situation called for it, as the information exchanged was entirely correct, but she can't help but wonder how either of them would be if they weren't such proper ladies. "That was us. Oh, it's so nice to see you doing well." Which is also true, but Flora has to admit she isn't quite as enthusiastic as she let on. "I'd love to have you stay, Puzzlette, but I ought to clean this mess up. It was a pie, and I was making it for you as a greeting from the new neighbor. I guess it sort of worked, huh?"

Puzzlette beams and Flora can't help but think she'd blind someone if she smiled in the sun. "Keep trying, Flora. I'm just downstairs if you ever need me, but right now I've got Misha running the shop and I really need to get back. Wonderful to see you again! Toodle-oo!"

Flora isn't sure what is worse: That Puzzlette was a grown woman who still said toodle-oo, or that she found it oddly endearing. Toodle-oo? Honestly, as though they were _children_.

As the daughter of two esteemed men, Flora always tried her hardest to do right by them, even if one was proud of her for continuing to live, as though it took any special skill to keep breathing, and one was dead. She still had to keep her head high, always, because someone might see something one of the higher-ups might disapprove of. Layton was by no means a celebrity, but his name was large enough in scholarly and archaeological sciences circles that news would spread quickly of his unruly, wretched adopted daughter, and where would that leave either of them? At best, a few disapproving looks, at worst, an admittance of all their failures as a successful familial unit. Of course Alfendi would be dragged into matters of the family, and even though Flora trusts that the good Professor knows better than to repeat his mistakes (or at least recognize that he is too old to put anyone in the situations he used to), she can't help but fear that the newspapers wouldn't. So always, always, _chin up Flora dear, head high, cloth pressed, smile here, giggle there-_

She sighs, picks up a dishrag, and sets about emptying the pie from its container.


End file.
